Blossoming
by CurlyMustache
Summary: When Dean Winchester's brother is killed, he must find the help of a long-lost friend to seek revenge. When their lives are risked and all they have is at stake, will they rise to the challenge or fail and sentence themselves to death? Dealing with a monster he'd never known existed and the slight kindlings of a growing affection, Dean is forced to face unspeakable challenges.


This is an AU and I haven't written in a while, so if anyone has constructive criticism, that'd be great. I don't own Supernatural or any of the gorgeous cast. Onward, then.

**...**

"Sammy, this – this _sound_," Dean said, whining, "It physically hurts me to listen to it. Spare your brother's soul. Oh, God, Sam. You would make me put up with this if you loved me," he pleaded, taking his eyes off the road to give his brother his best pathetic face.

"Dude, Dean, this song isn't even that bad! This is, like, the best on their album! How can you not love it?" Sam demanded, genuinely confused.

"This is the best on their album? Oh my God. Are you being serious? Oh my God," Dean repeated and took a hand off of the steering wheel to cover his mouth in mock horror. "Whose music taste did you get? Even Mom's was better than yours and she liked The Weather Girls."

The two brothers were on their way to a long-time family friend's funeral. He was more of a father than they ever had had, but they regarded them as their uncle. It had been a freak incident that no one expected – Bobby, their previously mentioned "uncle", turned up dead. No finger prints, no weapon, no trace of the murderer. It was all the brothers could do to keep their shit together at a time like this. They had each other and, maybe, that was enough for now.

Sam scowled, but there was no real anger behind it when Dean reached over and shut off the radio.

"Jerk," Sam muttered with a grin.

Dean turned to Sam to give him his reply – the one that would be the same as it always was – when Sam's hand shot out and took a hold of the steering wheel. "Dean! Look out!" he yelled and, even as Dean's head was snapping toward the road, Sam was jerking the wheel to the side, the tires twisting abruptly. Dean could see the white tail of a buck as it went bounding across the rest of the road and into the woods on the other side. Dean's '67 Impala sat in the middle of the road horizontally but otherwise without a scratch on it or its occupants.

Dean turned to stare at Sam, wide eyed. A slow grin worked its way across both their faces and Dean uttered a soft, "Damn." How many times more would they manage to escape death?

Oh, well… Never mind. Spoke too soon.

The last things the freckle-faced brother saw were bright lights behind Sam's head and the glass of the passenger side window cracking into a million pieces and exploding against his face, stinging and tearing open the skin before his head was slammed forward against the steering wheel and the world went black.

…

Dean woke up only two times in the next forty-eight hours.

The first time he woke up covered in a thick blanket tucked all the way up to his chin. He was only awake long enough to hear his brother and a stranger's voice.

"Thank you so much, sir… I can't believe you took us in…" That was Sam's voice, but it was distant and soft. Dean struggled to hear the other voice.

"Oh, don't thank me! It was the absolute least I could do. I mean, it was me who made this mess anyway! And please, call me Dick."

The voice was too genial for Dean's liking. He was suspicious of whoever the owner of the voice in question was, but it seemed he was always suspicious of everyone ever since his uncle's murder only a while ago.

Dean heard nothing else after that, so he let his heavy eyelids fall shut and succumbed to the ebony, grasping, wrenching claws of Sleep.

The second time Dean woke up, he was being spooned a mouthful of soup and his face burned. Two faces were hovering over him, but it looked like six. He felt someone dabbing something onto his face, hence the burning – it smelled like rubbing alcohol –, and the other someone was practically force-feeding chicken broth down his throat. He managed to make a guttural grunt.

"Sh, Dean."

_Sam_.

"Dean, it's going to be okay. You'll be okay, just get some more rest. I'll see you soon," Sam murmured quietly. The stranger – was his name Rick? – put a vial of amber liquid to Dean's lips and tipped it back, forcing Dean to swallow it whether he wanted to or not. Dean immediately felt dizzy and even drowsier than before.

"Sam," he muttered, his voice coarse and scratchy before Sleep's claws grabbed him once again and pulled him down, down, down under everything.

He slept eighteen more hours after that and when he woke up, he smelled something rank. He was no longer in the soft-quilted bed that had housed him for the last two days, but on a hard, metal surgery table. Not a surgery table you would find at a hospital, but one that you may perhaps find in old horror movies. To match the theme of the table, leather bindings were wrapped around Dean's wrists, middle, and ankles.

"Unh…" Dean groaned, his muscles sore and achy and his head still blurry with drowsiness. "Sam…?"

He tried to keep his eyelids open but they were too heavy.

"Dean!" Dean recognized his brother's call from somewhere distant yet again.

"Sam?" Dean tried to call back. His voice came out no louder than a mouse's squeak and resembled it, too.

The older brother heard thrashing of bodies, scuffling of feet, and the grunts of two exhausted men. Dean's vision blotched with black, struggling to stay conscious before failing and going under once again. God, what was wrong?

Yet again, Dean woke up. He was still on the hard metal flat and he heard the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of a leaky faucet. Dean pried his eyes apart, heavy with sleep, and was practically blinded by the white light pointing directly at his face. He recoiled with a grunt.

"Oh, _my_ bad," a vaguely familiar voice chimed annoyingly. The light went off and Dean blinked, trying to get his vision back. A face blurred into his line of sight and Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "Who – ?" Dean was cut off.

"Dick Roman, CEO of Dick Roman Enterprises. It's a pleasure to finally meet you face to face, Dean Winchester," the man practically purred. His hair was slicked back professionally and his jaw had the jut to it that just made you want to punch him square on it. That, or maybe the air of power and arrogance that followed him everywhere he went.

"What do you wa – ?" Again, Dean was cut off.

"I already have all I want. Well, nearly all I want. I have the necessary ingredients, at least. A dead Bobby Singer, a handicapped Dean Winchester, and a Sam Winchester that's willing to sacrifice his own life to save his older brother's. Isn't that _cute_, Dean?" Dick asked, his lips curved in a smile that told Dean he'd already won. "It's no fun; this was far easier than I was expecting. Bobby put up a fight better than you two, and he's a third of your age," Dick chided.

Dean's thoughts ran in a frenzy. Sorry, what? Who was this guy? He'd never met him in his life and he'd certainly never heard a word about him from Bobby.

"I'm sorry, I must be the wrong Dean Winchester," he managed cheekily, despite the situation he was in. Dean had never been put in hand cuffs, let alone strapped down with leather – not with even the kinkiest of his girlfriends.

"Oh, no, just the right one. You seem surprised, though," Dick murmured, circling the tray he was strapped to. "You know who I am, don't you? Did your father never tell you?"

"I never knew my father," Dean bit out bitterly. "My only dad was Bobby Singer, and if _you're_ the man who killed him – !" Again, Dean was cut off. It was beginning to get a bit more than annoying

"Now, now," Dick shushed him, "Don't get your panties in a twist. I didn't kill Bobby Singer. One of my men did. Not that that matters. What matters is that you honestly don't know who I am," Dick said, a finger on his chin. He wet his lips thoughtfully. "This just makes it all the easier, then. Ah, well. That's no problem; I'll wring the fun out of you in some way or another. Like this, even," Dick said, a snap of his fingers accompanying what he said.

Dean was still struggling to comprehend the fact that this man had barged into his life, him being totally unaware their family ever had an enemy. Dean's eyes skittered across the room and landed on his brother being hauled into the cement-walled room by two even larger men.

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, a feeling of dread settling in his gut like a rock – heavy and cold.

Sam's head hung slack on his neck, but he stirred slightly at the sound of his brother's voice. "De-nn…" Sam slurred, lifting his head to look at his brother.

"Sam," Dean breathed, gaping at the state of his brother. Oh, God. A trickle of blood streaked the length of Sam's face, running down his temple and even dripping onto the front of his shirt. His nose looked like it was cranked a way it should never be turned.

"Dean, say hello to your brother. Let's just say he hasn't been the most cooperative hostage, to say the least. He will now, though, now that you're involved. You Winchesters and family," Dick huffed with a roll of his eyes. "So, this is the deal," Dick started, eyes passing over Dean first, then Sam. Dean looked at Dick, helplessness clear in his bright green eyes.

Dick waited until, finally, "Sam, you kill yourself or your brother gets killed."

Dick let his words hang in the air until they sunk in. A sick, twisted smile began to unfurl on his face as Dean glanced from Dick to Sam and back again with a look of utter confusion on his face.

"What – no! What?!" Dean exclaimed, eyes searching frantically from each of their faces.

And suddenly, Dick pulled a gun, a simply hand gun, and pointed it at Dean's head. Dean stilled immediately, the blood freezing in his veins even though his heart pumped faster than ever.

A fair skinned Cuban man materialized from a dark corner of the room and Dick glanced at him with a nod. The man walked over to Sam and shoved a gun into his hand. The two men on either side of Sam released his arms and Dean briefly considered why they had done such a stupid thing like that. Sam could just shoot the –

_Bang. Bang, bang, bang._

The shots ran through the basement ceiling. Four bullet holes in four foreheads and neither of those bullets were in the Winchester's heads.

"Sam," Dean murmured, glancing up from the toppling bodies. "Sam, help me out," he urged his brother who was staring at the gun in his hand. He let it drop to the ground. He rushed over to Dean and sawed off both the leather bounds on his wrists, managing to free Dean's arms and handing before tackling the one around his middle. Dean watched Sam's hands as he sawed him out and was startled when a looming figure cut off the lamp light from the light overhead. Dean glanced up and would have jumped in surprise if he could have.

"Sam," Dean uttered, softly.

How was this possible? They had been shot in the heads!

"Silly, silly Winchesters," Dick purred, his chest rumbling. "You can't kill us with your petty guns. You can't kill us _at all_," Dick gloated, "It sure is a shame you guys aren't like that."

Dean stared in horror as Dick raised his pistol and before any more words could be shouted, spoken, or even whispered, a shot rang clear and true in the air and Samuel Winchester crumpled to the floor, dead.


End file.
